


My Maker, Know My Heart

by disalae



Series: Avery Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disalae/pseuds/disalae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan gets hurt; Cullen wants to help. She doesn't make it easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Maker, Know My Heart

The sight of blood had never frightened him, but then again Cullen had never seen so much of it pouring from someone he loved. Has never had someone he _loved_ , not like this.

So much of this is just so frighteningly new.

“It looks worse than it is,” she reassures him when his gaze falls once more to the bandage covering a large swath of skin below her ribs -- magic did what it could, but the wound was still fresh, raw, and in need of tending and rest. Not that it was any use telling her that; even now her hand reaches down to press at the wound gently, to test it, the unsurprising result of said action being a sharp twist and paling of her features. But she shrugs it off, and smiles tightly. “See?”

The bandages begin to grow red.

He doesn't look particularly convinced.

“That was hardly reassuring,” he replies with a crooked smile, but there is likely little comfort in it. He cannot help the expression he holds, the worry stitched into it. “Do you need anything?”

She laughs, a snort of a thing -- the first time she did it in front of him she blushed, embarrassed -- but that wasn't the wisest of actions, because no sooner than she’s done it her eyes once again close and her brow furrows, to will the pain away. She begins to hum -- a low tone, as if the vibration soothes her -- before she grits through her teeth, “I’m fine.”

“You’re--” He resists the urge to roll his eyes; he doesn't want to seem impatient with her.  _Isn't_  impatient with her. That’s not what this is. “You’re not _fine_.”

“I know,” she replies too fast, her voice soberly sincere; there is no petulance in it, but no fear either. It just is what it is. “But unless you’re, you know, a doctor or something... I dunno.” She then looks as if she wants to shrug, but doesn't want to risk it, so her eyebrows just move a little.

“Right,” he answers, curt. He doesn't know why he’s being so short with her, except he _does_ , right? He just wants to _help_ but she’s so bull headed, so unsure of what to do with stillness, that he wonders if at times he’s fallen into bed with Cassandra instead of his lovely Inquisitor. Because she  _is_ lovely, despite it all. Always. Even covered in blood, sweat, and mud; even stumbling over words with dignitaries, cheeks aflame; even now, cringing in pain and pushing him away and trying to pretend everything is all right.

He understands why she does it, of course. That last part. He just wishes she knew, with him, it was all right to admit sometimes everything isn't.

He sighs, and moves his chair closer. Presses his hand to her cheek, and smiles. She smiles back. Always does. “Are you certain there isn't _anything_ I can do for you, love?”

She looks him up and down, an unsubtle gaze. “I don’t think that’ll help.”

His brows knit. “What? Oh--” he realizes her lewd implication, and then actually does roll his eyes. “I didn't-- you know that isn't what I meant.”

She did. That wasn't the point. “I know.”

A broken record, her. “Nothing, then?”

He knows she doesn't like asking for help. Says she spent her life first too little, and then too tall but still too little, like a normal person stretched out thin. Weak; always needed help, was never able to be the one helping. Not when it mattered ( _her tiny fists beating against armor, templar branded, please don’t take her, please, she’s my **sister**_ ).

Thing is: now, when it matters, she _is_ the one being asked for help. And maybe it’s what she wanted back then, but now it doesn't sit well; not her words, no, just something he can tell in the way she holds herself. At least, he thinks he can see it. Thinks he knows her well enough now, intimately enough, that he can see the difference. He remembers, after all: when she awoke in Haven she was alight with purpose, with Andraste’s grace. Now there is something weightier on her shoulders.

 _Divinity is a heavy burden_ , she admitted to him some nights back, in the dark and the quiet.

“Just, you know,” she finally says, her gaze flitting away from him to look at everything, and nothing, and then to the empty side of her bed. “I dunno. You can... stay?" A beat, and then quick: "If you want.”

It’s kind that she asks. He wishes she didn't feel like she had to.

He stands with purpose, and she watches him with wide, pleading eyes (she would never plead, though; _divinity doesn't give that kind of power_ , she says). With practiced hands he begins shedding his heavy armor, steel and leather and feathers piled neatly atop one another next to her bed until he’s in nothing but his tunic and pants. He runs a hand down his chest, to smooth the fabric of his shirt. It’s soft. Simple. Warm. Everything he wants to be, for her.

“May I?” he asks with a gesture towards the vacant space at her side, although he already moves towards it. Careful to not let his weight shift the bed too much, he settles next to her on his side ( _soft, warm_ ); one hand reaches across to cradle the join of her shoulder and neck, thumb smoothing against her flushed skin in small circles. She lays on her back, can't move to face him, to hold him like she always does, and he can see in her face the frustration of that fact. But her head tips towards him and she smiles in blessed relief, and when she does he can't help but think that she looks so divine, even with the heaviness of it; even with bruises, even with blood.

"Thank you," she whispers, voice hoarse, like a confession. And she doesn't have to say it -- he knows; answers by pressing forward just enough to let their lips graze, _gentle, gentle_ \-- but he's glad she does.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading my lil ficlet, requested by the lovely [tersa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alix/pseuds/tersa), who wanted some h/c with cullen, and then i went and made it all about my inquisitor. and took like two weeks to write it. i shouldn't be allowed to fill requests.


End file.
